


When the Image Blurs

by cutcrease



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alphinaud/Everyone, Anonymous Sex, Fantasizing, Feminization- minor, Gender-Neutral Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Glory Hole, Multi, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29970387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutcrease/pseuds/cutcrease
Summary: For all its charms, the most captivating place in Ishgard is this one, where Alphinaud can lose himself to his most base desires with no consequence.
Relationships: Alphinaud Leveilleur/Estinien Wyrmblood, Alphinaud Leveilleur/Others, Alphinaud Leveilleur/Scions, Alphinaud Leveilleur/Warrior of Light
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	When the Image Blurs

**Author's Note:**

> Someone in the Estinien/Alphinaud discord server said something about Estinien blowing Alphinaud with his helmet on, and my gremlin brain went "okay but what if glory holes." That thought became this. 
> 
> Alphinaud/WoL and Alphinaud/Estinien get the most focus, but nearly every other major character in Heavensward gets a nod. If I missed anyone, it's probably not intentional. 
> 
> I chose not to use Archive Warnings because there's so little actual content here.  
> \---  
>  **If you would like a DETAILED breakdown of potential squick, skip to the end notes.**

He wouldn’t normally be caught in a place like this- a poorly lit public bath on the outer edges of The Brume, just where the streets turn from splendid cobblestone to broken gravel- but.

But. 

Every night he feels the blade at his throat again, just to wake up the next morning to feel the weight of the Dragonsong War, of the Sultana’s death- though he has his own theories about that, not a single one of which relieves the pressure. Every day he worries for the Warrior, for their sullied name, for the Scions, especially the ones they’ve lost. His skin feels tight, his muscles tense, and the way Emmanellain had spoken of the place- in hushed tones, with none around but Honoroit (the poor boy had flushed dalamud red when he realized what his master was referencing)- had intrigued Alphinaud more than he could say. 

Stressed and desperate though he may be, he is no fool, and wears a plain brown cowl with his hair down to obscure his face- though he’d stopped short of glamouring it for the night. The people milling about don’t interest him- can’t interest him, he can’t be caught here. He walks past them to the back rooms, past crumbling saunas and big stone tubs full of people until he finds what he’s looking for. 

There’s a short gap, just enough that he can make out that someone is there. His pulse quickens at the thought, that it could be just this easy. He’s half hard just thinking about it, nerves alight with excitement and a slight base note of the anxiety he’s been carrying for months if not years. 

Wordlessly, he gathers his cowl front, lowers his undershorts, and pushes his cock through the round opening in the wall. 

With nothing more than a small, barely noticeable satisfied chuckle, there are hands on his cock, stroking him to full hardness before he knows it, leaving him breathless and dizzy even before their mouth closes around his head. 

His partner is well-practiced, he barely has time to think before they take him as far into their mouth as the wall between them will let him. He raises one arm above his head and rests it on the wall, looking down at the place where his cock meets stone. The flicker of the shadows beyond the opening have him biting his lip in terrified desire. 

The only sound he can make out is the lurid wet noises of their mouth as they work him over, rhythmic in a way that drives him wild. 

The first time the sound happens, it’s nearly unnoticeable- if it weren’t for the fact that Alphinaud is hyperaware of his surroundings, cataloguing every single shift of the wind to commit to memory for later, he wouldn’t have heard it all. He does hear it, though. Encouraged by his partner’s apparent pleasure, he thrusts slowly against the wall. 

Every forward motion brings another small, half-swallowed noise from his partner’s throat, making Alphinaud more and more desperate, until they pull off completely with an audible moan. 

Alphinaud draws back just a bit, a fierce recollection tugging at his mind. He _knows_ that sound, has heard it before- the tone, or the pitch, something in it is familiar. The mouth returns quickly, but the thought lingers. 

It can’t be so- it’s silly. He’s never heard any of his compatriots in a sexual situation, only battle and casual conversation, none of which translate. He resolves to put it out of his mind and focus on the pleasure. 

That sound, too known for him to ignore, happens again. This time, Alphinaud doesn’t fight it- he gives in, reaches down to stroke the ilm at the base of his cock that doesn’t quite make it into the opening, and lets his mind wander. 

The Warrior is first, of course- how could they not be? Beauty, strength, fearsome resolve, and a body built from months of harsh travel, training, and slaying gods. Taking them to bed would be an honor, and he knows that they’d bed him with the same fervor they show everything else they touch. He imagines their hands, their mouth- and the image changes. Hands are replaced with gauntlets, holding his thighs. 

It wouldn’t be that different from this, he thinks- Estinien has never taken his helm off in front of Alphinaud, and it’s easy to think that on the other side of the wall, the Azure Dragoon could be kneeling, taking Alphinaud in his mouth and putting him to the test, to see just what Alphinaud is made of. He can nearly feel the metal horns beneath his hands, his nails scrabbling against the stone wall as he gets close. 

The images come faster now, Y’shtola, somehow showing him the best time of his life while also making him feel unworthy of her attention, rude and demanding; Thancred, thick fingers inside him, slurring that Alphinaud is as pretty as a girl while he opens him up. A shiver of disgusted excitement rocks through him- that thought is too private for even this setting. Tataru doesn’t even need to kneel to push her small body up against his, hands barely able to wrap entirely around him; Urianger, voice soothing and pompous at the same time, filth disguised in words that are almost as beautiful as Alphinaud knows him to be beneath his layers of coarse cotton; Yda, masked but otherwise bare as he descends between her legs. Yugiri and her scales beneath his hands. Aymeric, Haurchefant, the entire Heaven’s Ward, using him for their own pleasure- endless flashes of possibility, each more taboo than the last. 

The images blur together the closer he gets, no respite from the insistent mouth that’s drawing him ever towards his end. His mind is filled with hair- yellow, black, white, red, brown, familiar faces, pouty pink lips and thin mouths with wide smiles, teeth in his neck, hands running all over his body, focused on him and him alone. In the dark, he hears the slick sound of rhythmic touching- he can’t make out if it’s a well-slicked cock or insistent fingers fucking inside his partner, but that’s what pushes him to the edge. The mouth around him takes him in as far as it can again, and he empties himself into their throat. 

Pulling back from the wall, he hurriedly fixes his clothing and tucks himself away, feeling lighter than he has in ages, but somehow heavier too.

Awkwardly, he turns to leave, a light fog of almost-shame setting in, one that he’ll grapple with another time. Just as he rounds the corner, he hears them. 

“You know where to find me,” they say, voice so _achingly_ familiar, but there’s something off about it- they’re lowering their voice, speaking in an unused register. He casts return, back to the relative safety of Ishgard’s aetheryte plaza, and makes his way back to Fortemps Manor. 

Behind the wall, they chuckle as they watch him- rather, his boots- disappear. 

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: potential underage, depending on what you think Alphinaud's age at the beginning of Heavensward is, age gap ships, slight feminization kink with Thancred and an implication that Thancred is drunk, fantasizing about Tataru since some of y'all are weird about adult lalafell getting down despite the overwhelming canon evidence that lalafell fuck, all sorts of implied power differentials, gangbang/orgy thoughts. Basically, Alphinaud thinks of pretty much everyone he knows because they're all extremely hot and he's horny.  
> \---  
> shoutout to those ugly-ass boots. gods, those shoes are killing me. (Title from "The Preferred" by DREAMCAR, whose 2017 album "DREAMCAR" I have been listening to on repeat for three months. I always show up three to five years late with Starbucks, okay?)  
> \---  
> 


End file.
